Single Frame
by Eines Zwei Drei
Summary: Ryan attempts to become a new person. In all the wrong ways. Set after the final scene of 3.07.
1. Chapter 1

Looking down at his bloody knuckles as he hugged the punching bag, his heart beating in his chest, his muscles burning, as sweat poured down on his dress shirt, he felt somewhat relieved. It wasn't because of the sweat, or the burning muscles, the energy exerted, it was the blood.

He turned his hands over, the blood was smeared, painting over his fingers, he reached out and touched his knuckles, it hurt. But it didn't matter. Ryan Atwood was used to pain. He had let himself become soft in this place, he had let himself become comfortable, safe, content. He had forgotten what he thrived on, what all Atwoods thrived on. Pain. Ryan's childhood was tainted with pain, by his early teenager years, pain was another metal of honour. You were judged how strong you were, how important you were, by the scars you had, the marks you had on your face. They didn't hurt anymore. They were apart of you, even if they faded, ceased to exist.

People here didn't think that way. Pain was frowned upon, worried about. Seth stepped on a piece of glass he moaned incessantly. Marissa revelled in her emotional pain, but physical she just tried to avoid.

Ryan didn't want to drink away his problems, or moan and beg for attention. He wanted to deal with them himself. He couldn't hurt people anymore, even people like Volchok who deserved it. Volchok in Chino wouldn't have lasted five minutes with Ryan. He would have kicked his ass, no consequences, no problems. It would have been over.

But this wasn't Chino. This was Newport, problems were settled locked away, in closed spaces.

He had never gotten that before. He got that now. He could do anything, as long as he did it by himself, in a quiet closed space where no one would ever find out. That was too easy.

Ryan went into the bathroom and put his hands under a running tap, the blood swirled down the drain. It left his knuckles raw, and red.

He looked at himself in the mirror. His eyes bloodshot, his face glistening with sweat, his collared shirt rumpled and flecked with sweat and blood. He looked like a business type after a night at fight club.

He didn't want to be this person.

He wanted to be that person with a cool, calm face. He didn't want to be the type that flew off the handle anymore. But he didn't want to be like every other Newport guy, he had gone through too much, to assimilate now. He never could, he knew that. As much as he tried he couldn't hold it in, the same old Ryan Atwood came back, like with Trey, or with the punching bag.

He sat down on the cool tiled floor, his head on his knees, unsure of what to do. He knew what he wanted to do. He wanted to inflict pain on himself, instead of on others. Instead of punching someone, instead of letting down Sandy and Kirsten yet again.

He had heard about it, read about it, he had always thought those people were weak. He had never understood what would drive someone to break their own skin. Yet sitting in the bathroom, starring at his own blood he understood. He understood perfectly.

You hurt yourself on the outside, to kill the thing on the inside.

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**TBC**

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	2. Chapter 2

Marissa thought he had changed, he thought almost bitterly, sitting on the floor of his bathroom. It gave him hope that he could hide. Ryan never been very good at lying, he could not look someone in the eye and lie to them. But he had one strength, he would simply say nothing at all. His silence was his strong point. As long as no one asked, he would never have to lie, and how could a person possibly think to ask?

Marissa thought he had changed! Seth thought KidChino was dead. Sandy was proud of him. Kirsten thought of him as her son. If any of them knew what was going on in his head, they would all change their minds. But this was how Newport worked. Nobody knew what was going on.

Ryan had lived in Newport on and off now, for over two years. Yet still, they knew precious little of him, they knew of his grades in school, of him and Marissa, his want to fight, his temper. But they had never asked about the other stuff, and he had never had to tell.

Trey had come the closest to exposing him, he would have never survived here.

He didn't Ryan told himself. Trey ran his mouth, he didn't censor his words, he just said them. Ryan couldn't do that.

The Cohens didn't know that Ryan started smoking at 11, lost his virginity at 14, that his Dad first knocked him unconscious when he 8. He never told them that his Mother's drink of choice was whiskey, that from the time his father went to prison to the time he moved in with the Cohen's 9 men had gone in and out of his life, and only one had been decent. He never told them that he missed Teresa.

He didn't have to. They didn't want to know. They knew Ryan now, they knew his past was crappy, but they didn't dwell they focused on the future. They were so focused on turning him into a proper Newport boy, so focused on making him perfect, _despite_ his past. Ryan couldn't just look forward, his past was bogging him down, he couldn't help the anger he felt in his heart. He couldn't help the way his temper flared, as much as he tried, god knows he had fucking tried, he could not stop it.

Until now.

He picked himself up off the floor, and walked into the poorhouse, pulling off his dress shirt, leaving him in just a wife beater. His hands wet, his knuckles; red, damaged, but not bleeding. The punching bag was still swinging slightly, just where he left it. He resisted the urge to go back and hit it. He went to the wicker drawers and ruffled around. In the basket with his hoody sweater, in the back, was his wrist cuff. Left abandoned by a boy who thought he didn't need to look tough anymore.

He pulled it out, snapped it on to his wrist. It felt familiar, reassuring, comforting. All the things a secret should feel.

The new Ryan Atwood began now. Anything Marissa and the Cohens couldn't see, was solely his business, not anyone else's. His. He didn't have many things left from his old life. Literally nothing. He had his hoody sweater, his wrist cuff, and buried in the bottom drawer of his bedside table, like it didn't matter. Was his Father's pocket-knife, he had stolen it from his mother dresser, long ago. He wasn't quite sure why, but it was comforting to him, it always had been. Some days, he just carried it around in his pocket, for luck. But he had never used it. He snapped open the knife, pushed his finger against the blade, still sharp.

He walked back into the bathroom.

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**TBC- **leave a review  



	3. Chapter 3

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Sometimes you got to let the rich people help you, he had said to Johnny as he was about to fuck up his life forever. Sometimes that was true, but sometimes you had to help yourself. What a sham the holidays were, he could admit that he didn't mind Chrismakkah at the Cohen's, it was safe, and friendly. Crisis's here were nothing but bad party planning. But this isn't how he had grown up. Yet now he was a man, according to Jewish tradition, he wish he could teach himself to stop dwelling, because he felt 15 most of the time. 

He peeked through his windows, dark. Finally. The light in Seth's room had finally gone out, not even the glow of his computer, all the Cohen's were safe in their bed, so proud of him. So proud that he had swallowed his pride, that he had embarrassed himself in front of everyone, that Johnny was going to be okay.

He scoffed, as he walked out the door of the pool house. He didn't know why he had bought them, it seemed like the right thing to do when you go into a convience store, buy a pack of Marlboros and a lottery ticket. He was glad he had.

Nobody had asked, he hadn't expected them to. It was winter, a chilly 70 degrees outside, it was completely appropriate to wear long sleeve shirts, no one even saw that he had added his wrist cuff back into his wardrobe, and why would they care anyway?

But now alone in the dark, overlooking the ocean, with only himself and an unlit cigarette, he didn't have to hide. He snapped off the cuff and looked for his a pack of matches he had stole from the kitchen. He ran his fingers across the lines, they weren't much, they weren't deep, they were just enough to bleed and leave a mark.

He wasn't trying to kill himself, that was the furthest thing from his mind. He knew where his veins where and he knew how to avoid them. It was just something about the blood and the pain that soothed him.

He took a drag of his cigarette and looked out into the ocean. He shook his head and smiled a little. Bar Mitzvah-ed, if only his family could see him now.

"Ryan." He heard it in the back of his head.

"Ryan!" Slightly louder and more urgent now.

He grunted, bleary eyed to find Seth sitting beside him.

"Hey man, how's our little Jewish man? Ready to start the day with some Chrismakkah shopping? What should I get for Summer? A Seth Cohen starter pack is a given, but what should be the theme? Japanese cinema?"

Ryan rolled over.

"What time is it?"

"A time when Ryan Atwood still isn't in bed. Where you hitting that bar mitzvah post celebration or something?"

"Nah man. Just a little tired."

"Perfect."

Ryan had been in bed just over 3 hours, it felt like 3 minutes. He had stayed sitting where he was for ages last night, just thinking, just being himself.

"Have you been burning incense in here? It smells a little smoky in here." Seth commented.

Ryan busied himself with his watch.

"Yeah, Marissa, she's crazy about the stuff, it just smells like burning to me." he shrugged for good measure. Good Lord he had these people fooled, it wouldn't take a genius to smell cigarette smoke in here, good lord he had smoked five, or was it six? But that was so out of the realm of Seth Cohen.

"Alright man, let me hit the shower, I'll meet you in the kitchen in a few."

"Ryan Atwood, is that a wrist cuff?" Seth was smiling. He was always smiling.

"Yeah, I hear they are back in style." Ryan grinned back. He had never felt so happy telling the truth, or telling a lie.

He could briefly hear Seth laugh as he closed the door to the bathroom.

He turned on the water on full heat and stood under it. Fading away, letting his tired body melt under the water, letting the cigarette smoke from last night wash away.

Kirsten and Sandy were in the kitchen as always, Sandy busying himself with a bagel, Kirsten pouring him a glass of orange juice. Seth sitting at the table pursuing catalogues. It all seemed so familiar, this was his family in a way. They would always look out for him, love him, try to protect him. As much as he loved them back, they would never know him, he would never let them see what he thought.

He grabbed a box of cereal and poured himself a cup of coffee.

"Shopping today buddy?" Seth asked.

"Of course."

"We should stop by and see Johnny, see how he's feeling about the good news." Seth said, mostly to him, but sometimes Seth just talked with no person in mind.

Ryan nodded, he knew how Johnny felt about the good news.

"We are so proud of you kid." Sandy came over and clamped him on the back. "You really did Johnny a good turn, he'll never forget it." Ryan smiled, and nodded his head, acknowledgement, but he wondered if they'd still be saying that about Johnny if they knew what he had almost done last night.

"Ryan honey, you have something on your shirt." Ryan looked down, it was blood, not a lot, just a drop.

He reached up distinctively to his face. Looking down at the spot instead of them, he could never lie to someone's face.

"I cut myself shaving, I thought it had stopped, excuse me." He took his coffee with him, not wanting to look in too much of a rush, hoping none of the Cohen's noticed the days worth of stubble on his face, or the other smudge of blood on his shirt sleeve, below his wrist cuff.

He sat down in his bathroom, pulling off his shirt.

He had to get himself together. He clenched his fists, curbing the urge to hit the wall.

This was his secret, this was his thing, away from the Cohen's, completely apart from them. He snapped off his wrist cuff and ran his wrist under water. Blood had smudged over it, from the cut that must have gone too deep. The blood swirled down the drain and Ryan waited until the water ran clear again.

It was too obvious, too noticeable. His wrist was a mess, too small of an area.

"Ryan buddy! The shops await, put on a new shirt and lets go!"

Ryan looked at himself in the mirror. His hair still wet, stubble growing on his face, his eyes a little bloodshot from not sleeping last night. It struck him, as nothing ever had.

He looked like his father.

He pulled his eyes away from the mirror. Seth and shopping beckoned, and Christmakkuh waited for no one.

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**TBC-** Leave a review  



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